


battle cries, dear

by concertconfetti, dredshirtroberts



Series: Witchertober 2020 [8]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bear School (The Witcher), Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Cat School (The Witcher), Found Family, Gen, Griffin School (The Witcher), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Magic and Science, Manticore School (The Witcher), Medieval Medicine, Near Death, Sort of - Lambert and Ashwood are platonic co-parents, Viper School (The Witcher), Witcher Contracts, Witcher Potions (The Witcher), Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Witchers age differently so uhh... twenties is baby, Witchertober (The Witcher), Wolf School (The Witcher), Wyverns, child endangerment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27035902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concertconfetti/pseuds/concertconfetti, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dredshirtroberts/pseuds/dredshirtroberts
Summary: There's a wyvern threatening the community at Kaer Morhen and Beorn wants to be on the team going out to take care of it. Mordred, the Bear Witcher yearling in charge, allows him to join up. But when the hunt goes sideways, Beorn is horrifically injured. In the process of trying to save the young Witcher's life, Ashwood of Daevon discovers how highly the yearlings hold him in their esteem and grapples with the realities of being a Witcher.
Series: Witchertober 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952140
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	battle cries, dear

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Witchertober Day 9 - Destiny 
> 
> This is set in a universe owned by Dredshirtrobers, by qpp, RP partner, and co-writer of this piece! Some things to know - 
> 
> yearlings - Witchers who've spent less than a decade on the Path  
> initiates - literal, actual children going through the Choice  
> Council - Vesemir's council, the ones that advise him in ruling over the Witcher Schools and, by extension, Kaedwen. The Council is made up of Yennefer, Triss, Ashwood, Eskel, Geralt, and Lambert. Vesemir's position is an elected one.

"Come on, Mordred, just put me on the roster?" Beorn is not begging, but he's close. Mordred's been put in charge of a team the trainers are sending out to deal with the wyvern sealing sheep (and at least one goat, according to councilor Eskel's last count) from the farmlands of Kaer Morhen. 

"Why are you so set on this, B?" Mordred asks, exasperation leaking into his tone. The Wolf pup cornered Mordred in the library, and he desperately needed to visit with one of the mages (Ashwood, if he was being honest he preferred talking to Ashwood) in order to get help preparing potion for the trip. It wouldn't be far, so they wouldn't need much. Yet, he's still here, because, despite Beorn's diminutive size, the idiot was fast (and Mordred is fond of him).

Beorn huffs. "Because for one, it never hurts to have extra people on a hunt like this, and witcher code or whatever doesn't prohibit traveling in groups," he says, sounding bored with his own explanation. "And two, there are no Wolves in your team and three -" he leans forward for emphasis "- you know the only reason they excluded me from consideration because of my size. I passed the trials, Mordred, I'm a full-fledged Witcher just like you and they treat me like a fucking initiate."

"There is a Wolf on the team," Mordred says with a sigh, "we're bringing Oskar."

"Good. He'll vouch for me then."

"Freya's blessed ass, Beorn." Mordred sees an opening and twists away from his friend, walking briskly towards the main hall. Beorn soon falls in step next to him, and Mordred growls. "Fine! Fine. Just meet us at the stables in two hours." They stop in the main hall and Beorn's face lights up. "If you're late, we're leaving without you."

* * *

Initiates crowd around the hunting group as they gather at the stables - many of them haven't seen teams of witchers prepare for hunts and the elders are still used to the old days when witchers walked their Paths alone. Mordred spends time checking over their potion supply before addressing each member of the team.

"Wynona, did you bring explosive bolts?"

A young, lithe Viper Witcher stood slightly apart from the group with her arms crossed over her chest. Her lip curled from a large bite scar, the partners of which danced up the left side of her face. “Letho took a huge supply with him down to Aedirn,” she said, scowling. “Arms master said we can’t spare any for right now. Cactus helped me make some grapeshot to compensate.” 

“How many grenades?” 

“About ten.” 

“It’ll have to do,” Mordred says, picking at the ragged scar on his forehead. 

“We’ve got some split bolts,” called Liam, one of the taller boys, standing next to his twin brother, Gavin. The only difference between the two were the scars down their arms - Gavin sported bite marks from various necrophages; Liam, slashes and gouges from aerial beasts. (They wore Cat armor that exposed their forearms to help people identify them.) “Gav picked some up on his way back from Kovir.” 

Mordred nods, “Anything else? We’ve got enough Swallow - more than enough, you know how Amma is with prep work.” A series of good-natured groans echo out from the group. “Hearing none, we gotta do a roll-call and then head out. Wynona, Liam, and Gavin are here, obviously. Drummond?” 

“Here.” Drummond, a Manticore of considerable bulk and height, crouches near the initiates as he finishes pulling on his leather gauntlets and checking the various pouches strapped to his armor. 

“Oskar? Beorn?” 

“Both here, Dred!” Os calls as Beron finishes securing a section of chainmail over Os’ right thigh. Of the crew, the two Wolves have a more haphazard collection of gear - their swords are fine, but lack the pommels standard to their school. Both boys have linen and leather armor, well-cared for and hand patched in places. The Wolves still prized self-sufficiency, and their yearlings tended to purchase or patch their gear on the Path, rather than returning to a Witcher outpost for repair. 

Mordred sighs - he’d hoped maybe Os would talk some sense into Beorn. Still, they were here, and that’s what mattered. “Cel?” He calls out. The Griffin (sporting traditional light-Griffin School plate over linen armor), waved their hand. 

“Can we get on with it,” Wynona hissed. “We’re wasting time.” 

“Look, if you want to explain to Papa Vesemir why we didn’t turn in a roster before leaving, be my guest,” Modred responds, looking over his list and making notes. He rolls up his list and looks over the crowd of initiates. “Alright, littles, you have training with councilman Eskel in fifteen and best get to the training grounds now.” 

Most of the initiates scatter, though Mordred stops Friedrik and hands him the note. Friedrick nods, bouncing on the balls of his feet and sprints off toward the keep to deliver the roster to the keep’s Porter. The team followed Mordred toward the eastern gate, and Drummond went over the plan. 

“The wyvern has been spotted east of here, near a ruined watchtower at the other end of the Pond,” he starts, falling into step behind Mordred and allowing the others to circle around him. “It’s likely to have its nest somewhere in that area, perhaps even in the ruins. Plan is Wynona hits the nest with grapeshot -” 

“Damn straight.” 

“- Liam and Gavin will find high ground and use their scattershot to ground the thing,” Drummond continues. “Beorn and Os, you’re on the ground near the nest as Wynona’s backup, while Mordred and I focus on drawing its attention.” The manticore absently cracks his knuckles. “Not saying this’ll be easy - lots of points of failure. But it should be routine, yeah?” 

Os groans. “Don’t fucking jinx it, Drummond.” Liam and Gavin burst into laughter (fucking, Cats) and clap Os on the back. 

“Come on, Os, we have Beorn,” Gavin says with a toothy grin. “A whole extra witcher for a wyvern small enough that the trainers considered sending initiates with us to watch. We’re going to be fine.”

* * *

Wynona doesn’t get up immediately after crashing into the treeline; the wyvern, The Killer, tossed her from her perch at the tower toward the forest. Os and Beorn are pinned by a younger wyvern - the Killer’s hatchling, and likely the wyvern seen at the keep - and can only watch as she sails through the air and crashes through the branches. The grapeshot ignites the nest (Wynona managed to plant two grenades before the Killer spotted her), but the rest of the bombs explode from the shock of hitting the ground. The Wolves have no idea if their Viper comrade is still alive. 

The Killer screams above them, taking flight and circling over the field - Beorn manages to clip the young wyvern in the wing with aard and sending it spinning toward Os, who sinks his sword into its neck. The hatchling screams, the Killer screams, and Os yanks his sword forward, neatly severing its head from its neck. His sword slips free of the wyvern and he and Beorn sprint toward the tree line; crossbow bolts tear through the Killer’s wings, knocking it out of the air as it whirls back toward the Wolves. It crashes somewhere behind them as they sprint toward Wynona - she stumbles through the treeline, bleeding from a gash in her leg. 

The next few things happen incredibly quickly - the Killer hauls itself into the air, low enough to threaten Mordred and Drummond with her claws; Beorn hears the Killer scream and pick up speed toward Wynona; two more sets of crossbow bolts screech through the air, slashing new cuts into the Killer’s wings; Mordred sprints toward Wynona but Beorn gets there first and lunges, attempting to cast Quen, but he doesn’t quite get the sign off in time. Beorn shoves Wynona out of the way and the Killer snatches Beorn off the ground, claws puncturing his armor. 

Beorn screams. 

Mordred knocks the Killer out of the sky with a well-cast Aard; the claw holding Beorn relaxes, dragging along his torso as the wyvern falls. Beorn hits the ground hard some distance behind the wyvern with a sickening crack that echoes in the ears of his friends. 

Beorn loses track of his senses, the world turning to mush around him - he thinks he hears Drummond shouting, and the sound tastes like copper and heat and his own screaming. The world goes dark, but he feels Wynona’s knees thunk into the grass next to him and the burn of Full Moon on his lips.

* * *

When the hunting team arrives, the pup they’re carrying is sobbing, delirious with pain. He’s babbling, the words largely lost in the tide of pain, blood, and tears. Elder witchers, yearlings and initiates flood the courtyard, and Drummond and Mordred lower Beorn onto a stretcher. Disconnected syllables continue to trip out over Beorn’s lips, but among them, Os manages to pick out a refrain. 

"Amma. Get Amma, please. I want Amma."

Os sprints off toward the gardens, darting through the crowd at speed, barely dodging past people as he runs. The courtyard and artisan stalls give way to the gardens suddenly, as if they were portal-ed in from elsewhere. (In a way, they were - herbs were gathered in the wilds before Ashwood arrived at the keep.) Councilman Ashwood - their Amma - is crouched in the middle of the garden, scratching notes into a small notebook. 

“Amma!” Os yells, unaware of the slip - none of them ever call Ashwood ‘Amma’ to his face. Still, Ashwood’s attention snaps upward; “It’s Beorn, please, he needs you!” Ashwood’s eyes widen; he snatches a bag from one of the collection tables, jogging toward the young Wolf. 

“Where is he?” Ashwood asks, and Os turns heel, Ashwood not far behind. The return trip takes time - Ashwood is not a Witcher, and even at a dead sprint cannot match Os in speed. But he tries, and he skids to a stop in the courtyard, his chest heaving from the effort; the air is so thick with the scent of blood that it fills Ashwood’s lungs and mouth and he can nearly taste it. He swallows around his gag reflex - now is not the time to lose his stomach - and wades through the throng of people around Beorn. 

“Please, give the boy some space,” Ashwood says firmly, barely louder than his normal speaking voice (the benefit of working with Witchers). Initiates and instructors alike move back, and Ashwood kneels next to Beorn. The boy - he could be called a boy, despite his twenty-four summers, because of Ashwood’s agelessness and the slowed aging of Witchers - has pulled at his hastily bandaged wounds, blood oozing from the deep gashes in his torso. Beorn babbled uselessly, and Ashwood takes his hand and gently brushes Beorn’s hair away from his face. “I’m here Beorn,” Ashwood murmurs, pushing a light healing spell into Beorn’s skin as he tries to comfort the young Witcher. 

"Amma, Amma _please_ , it hurts,” Beorn sobs, looking at Ashwood with hazy eyes. 

"Shh, I know just stay still, we'll see what we can do about this, okay?" Ashwood looks up scanning the crowd. “Who did the field dressing?” 

“I did, sir,” Wynona says, stepping forward. “I gave him a dose of Swallow and a dose of Full Moon, to treat any internal injuries, but the surface wounds…” 

“You did an excellent job,” Ashwood says, holding up a hand. He makes eye contact with Mordred and Drummond in turn. “We need to get Beorn inside, to the infirmary,” he says, voice even and calm, “lift the stretcher gently and do your best not to jostle him. Keep him level.” The boys nod and gently lift Beorn off the ground. When Ashwood stands, Os hovers at his side, staying with him as they drift toward the keep. 

“Amma, is he going to be okay?" Os murmurs, tentative and shy and almost too quietly for Ashwood to hear, but the name, ‘Amma’, sticks in his gut. He is Amma - Beorn had been calling for him, specifically. He wonders, distantly, why they named him that. 

"We'll do what we can, Os,” Ashwood says, “Let's get inside where I can treat him better. The nickname can come later, right now he has one of _his_ Witchers to treat. He and Os follow Mordred and Drummond closely, with a parade of yearling Witchers behind them. Instructors swarmed the initiates, moving the children back to the training grounds. 

Ashwood hurls out a burst of magic as soon as they enter the keep - two birds erupt from green smoke swirling out of his hand and go screeching off in different directions. All activity in the keep stops; with no noise to distract from their frantic procession, it’s only a matter of time before people drifted over to watch them pass. Ashwood made eye contact with an instructor he recognized - Coën, of the Griffin School - and jerked his head toward the crowd. 

“Okay, get back to your duties,” Coën yells through the crowd. “Stop fucking gawking!” Spectators danced away from the scene and parted as Triss made her way toward the infirmary door; she held the door open for Mordred and Drummond before tying back her loose, ginger curls and setting up a table of medical supplies. 

“What do we need?” she asks, not bothering to look at Ashwood as he helps ease Beorn onto a bed. They’ve done this before, many times, with many Witchers. 

“Catgut, sterilized needles,” Ashwood says. “Mordred, Drummond, you can go - make sure the rest of the yearlings know we’re doing everything we can.” The Bear and Manticore nod and leave the room, looking numb from the shock of things. Witchers are expected to die on the path, but not this young. Not on something that was supposed to be routine. Ashwood turned to Os - “I need you to go get us a few buckets of water, okay, Oskar?” 

“Okay.”

“Warm, clean water. Not from the springs. You understand?” Beorn groans, rapidly losing the strength to even cry, pulling Ashwood’s attention away from the other Wolf. 

“Yes, Amma,” Os says with a firm nod. He’s gone by the time Ashwood turns back to Triss, who pulls up a seat on the other side of the bed. She hands Ashwood a pair of scissors, and they begin the grim work of removing Beorn’s armor and cleaning his wounds.

* * *

Vesemir arrives with Os, both carrying buckets of water. Ashwood and Triss are bloodied; Triss has a smear of blood across the coral brown skin on her cheek, obscuring her normally bright freckles. Ashwood is stitching up smaller wounds on Beorn’s chest, murmuring words of comfort as he works desperately to save the young Wolf. 

“Amma… I can’t…” Beorn moans, fresh tears slipping down his face. Ashwood presses a warm hand against his neck, willing strength into Beorn’s failing body. 

"Hush, pup,” Vesemir says, gently placing the requested water near the supply table. “Your Amma is doing his best, you need to be still." He turns to Triss and Ashwood, "Would this be easier if he was put under with Axii to keep him still?"

The mages share a look before Ashwood reluctantly nods. Vesemir makes the sign and presses it toward the injured Witcher. “Sleep,” he says, and Beorn is gone. 

They send Os out for additional bandages and Vesemir gets to work grinding up celandine blooms and willow bark, mixing the herbs with water. Triss uses the mixture to gently wash Beorn’s deeper wounds as Ashwood works. 

“When Os gets back with bandages, can you soak them in this mix?” Ashwood asks Vesemir.  
“Of course,” he says, holding his hands out. “Is there anything else?” 

“Prayer may not be out of the question,” Triss murmurs. “He’s feverish and in shock. Even if we get everything closed…”

“It’s going to take a lot of patience and magic to keep Beorn alive,” Ashwood finishes, a nearly imperceptible frown tugging at his lips. Vesemir lets out a ragged sigh. 

“Prayer is not my forte,” he admits, “but I will help however I can.”

* * *

It's early in the morning by the time they finish packing, stitching, and bandaging up Beorn. Vesemir took Os away hours ago and Triss takes her leave when she and Ashwood have dumped the last of the bloodied water buckets, leaving Ashwood alone in a chair by Beorn's bedside. Someone needs to stay, in case he wakes up. They agreed on shifts, but Ashwood knows he's not likely to leave the infirmary until Beorn does.

He sags a little in his chair staring up at the ceiling. Os has seen twenty-one summers; Beorn, twenty-four. Mordred is the oldest Bear of the yearlings, and he’s only seen twenty-seven summers. Aiden left home when he was five-years-old. They're children. Ashwood squeezes his eyes shut against the tears that threaten to fall, but he knows it's a lost cause as a ragged sob rips out of his chest. 

_Amma, please, it hurts...!_

They’d called him Amma - "A sort of version of Mama," Os told him, "because you're... you know... you and you take care of us." 

Ashwood hadn't known what to say to that. He wonders, vaguely, when it started, but that wonder was snatched away by the sheer fucking injustice of it all. No one, none of the men (and the handful of women and others) who lived here deserved to be in that much pain. And yet Witchers had, for centuries, thrown themselves at monster after monster to protect folk that hate them. And hate them still. A fury burns in Ashwood's chest alongside his terror and sadness and he thinks he might kill the next person to insult the witchers to his face. 

Beorn's breath hitches, his face momentarily twisted in pain - Ashwood watches him carefully, but he remains asleep. Ashwood takes his hand gently and traces the scars there - so many for one so young. Then again, was Ash any better? He'd inflicted his own wounds many a time by the time he turned four-and-twenty. Some days he felt like he might inflict many more. 

"I just heard.” Ashwood starts when he hears Lambert at the door. “Is he...?" He's trying to be calm about it but he's rattled and angry and anxious and it's hard to keep your voice down and have it be gentle at the same time so he picks one and hopes the other one makes it through by force of will. It mostly comes through as a growl. 

Ashwood looks up - there's no hiding tears that are sad and righteously angry. He lets out a shaky breath. "He's ah... Beorn's gonna be okay. Os and the others got him to the keep and then came and got me just in time," he says, trying not to look like an utter mess. "They're kids, Lamb," he mumbles into his hands.

Lambert finds a chair next to Ashwood and sits down, running a hand through his ginger hair - the beeswax pomade hadn’t held up well in his rush from repairing the walls. “What happened?” He asks. “They just told me he came in covered in blood.” 

“He went out with the team of yearlings sent out to take care of the wyvern,” Ashwood says, eyes dark. “Coën got me the details - according to Mordred, the wyvern had a hatchling. Beorn was caught up in its claws trying to protect Wynona. He wasn’t able to cast Quen in time.” The mage sags again, leaning gently against Lambert’s side. “He was nearly incoherent when they got him here…” 

“They’re just fucking kids,” Lambert mutters. “They’re kids, Ashwood, and we break ‘em down and build ‘em back up into Witchers and throw them out into a world that _hates_ them. And the instructors don’t know shit about the yearlings. They just see a grown Witcher and assume they can handle the shit Geralt and I do.” 

They sit in silence for a while, twin fires of rage and love burning down to their cinders. Because Lambert’s right - they’re practically children, despite their bluster and bravado. They have Lambert in their corner, obviously, but they have Ashwood now, too. And he’d do his best to keep them safe, to take care of them, make sure they knew _someone_ on this fucked up Continent gave a damn about them. That, at least, he could do.

**Author's Note:**

> title from Battle Cries by The Amazing Devil


End file.
